Read the book: «The White Ladies of Worcester: A Romance of the Twelfth Century», page 9

The light of the taper illumined the almost waxen whiteness of the gentle face, and gleamed upon the Bishop's ring. The Knight, fixing his eyes upon the stone, saw it the colour of red wine.

At last the Bishop began to speak with careful deliberation, his eyes upon the letter, yet telling, instead of reading; a method ofttimes maddening to an anxious listener, eager to snatch the parchment and master its contents for himself; yet who must perforce wait to receive them, with due patience, from another.

"The Prioress relates to me first of all a conversation she had, by my suggestion, with Sister Mary Serephine, in which she told that lady much of what passed between herself and me when she consulted me upon the apparent desire of this nun to escape from the Convent, renounce her vows, and return to her lover and the world—her lover who had come to save her."

The Bishop paused.

The Knight stirred uneasily in his seat. A net seemed to be closing around him. Almost he saw himself compelled to ride to Warwick in company with this most undesired and undesirable nun, Mary Seraphine.

The Bishop raised his eyes from the letter and looked pensively into the fire.

"A most piteous scene took place," he said, "on the day when Sister Seraphine first heard again the call of the outer world. Most moving it was, as told me by the Prioress. The distraught nun lay upon the floor of her cell in an abandonment of frantic weeping. She imitated the galloping of a horse with her hands and feet, a ride of some sort evidently being in her mind. At length she lifted a swollen countenance, crying that her lover had come to save her."

The Knight clenched his teeth, in despair. Almost, he and this fearsome nun had arrived at Warwick, and she was lifting a swollen countenance to him that he might embrace it.

Yet Mora well knew that he had not come for any Seraphine! Mora might deny herself to him; but she would not foist another upon him. Only, alas! this grave and Reverend Prioress of whom the Bishop spoke, hardly seemed one with the woman of his desire; she who, but three evenings before, had yielded her lips to his, clasping her arms around him; loving, even while she denied him.

The Bishop's eyes were again upon the letter.

"The Prioress," he said, "with her usual instinctive sense of the helpfulness of outward surroundings, and desiring, with a fine justice, to give Seraphine—and her lover—every possible advantage, arranged that the conversation should take place in the Nunnery garden, in a secluded spot where they could not be overheard, yet where the sunshine glinted, through overhanging branches, flecking, in golden patches, the soft turf; where birds carolled, and spread swift wings; where white clouds chased one another across the blue sky; in fact, my son," said the Bishop, suddenly looking up, "where all Nature sang aloud of liberty and nonrestraint."

The Knight's eyes, frowning from beneath a shading hand, were gloomy and full of sombre fury.

It mattered not to him in what surroundings this preposterous offer, that she should leave the Convent and fly with him to Warwick, had been made to Seraphine. Her swollen countenance would be equally unattractive, whether lifted in cell or cloister, or where white clouds chased one another across the blue sky!

The Knight felt as if he were being chased, and by something more to be feared than a white cloud. Grim Nemesis pursued him. This reverend prelate, whom he had deemed so wise, was well-nigh witless. Yet Mora knew the truth. Would her kind hands deal him so base a blow?

The Bishop saw the brooding rage in the Knight's eyes, and he lowered his own to the letter, in time to hide their twinkling.

Even the best and bravest of Knights, for having forced his way into a Nunnery, pressed a suit upon a nun, and escaped unscathed, deserved some punishment at the hands of the Church!

"Which was generous in the Reverend Mother," said the Bishop, "since she was inclined, upon the whole, to disapprove this offering of liberty to the restless nun. You can well understand that, the responsibility for the good conduct of that entire Community resting upon the Prioress, she is bound to regard with disfavour any innovation which might tend to provoke a scandal."

The Bishop did not look up, or he would have seen dull despair displacing the Knight's anger.

"However she appears faithfully to have laid before Sister Mary Seraphine, my view of the matter, giving her to understand that I am inclined to be lenient concerning vows made under misapprehension; also that, when there is not a true vocation, and a worldly spirit chafes against the cloistered life, I regard its presence within the Community as more likely to be harmful to the common weal, than the short-lived scandal which might arise if those in power should connive at an escape."

The Knight moved impatiently in his seat.

"Could we arrive, my lord," he said, "at the Lady Prioress's message, of which you spoke?"

"We are tending thither, my son," replied the Bishop, unruffled. "Curb your impatience. We of the Cloister are wont to move slowly, with measured tread—each step a careful following up of the step which went before—not with the leaps and bounds and capers of the laity. In due time we shall reach the message.

"Well, in this conversation the Prioress appears to have complied with my suggestions, excepting in the matter of one most important detail, concerning which she used her own discretion. I distinctly advised her to tell Seraphine that we were aware of your arrival, and that to my certain knowledge you were in the crypt each afternoon at the hour when the White Ladies pass to and from Vespers. In fact, my dear Knight, I even went so far as to suggest to the Reverend Mother to give Sister Mary Seraphine to understand that if she stepped aside, losing her way among the many pillars, you would probably know what to do next.

"But the Reverend Mother writes"—at last the Bishop began to read: "'I felt so sure from your description of the noble Knight who came to you in his trouble, that he cannot be the lover of this shallow-hearted little Seraphine, that I deemed it wise not to tell her of his arrival, nor to mention your idea, that the woman he seeks is to be found in this Nunnery.'"

The smothered sound which broke from the Knight was a mixture of triumph, relief, and most bitter laughter.

"Now that is like the Prioress," said the Bishop; "thus to use her own judgment, setting at naught my superior knowledge of the facts, and flouting my authority! A noble nature, Hugh, and most lovable; yet an imperious will, and a strength of character and purpose unusual in a woman. Had she remained in the world and married, her husband would have found it somewhat difficult wholly to mould her to his will. Yet to possess such a woman would have been worth adventuring much. But I must not fret you, dear lad, by talking of the Prioress, when your mind is intent upon arriving at the decision of Seraphine.

"Well, I fear me, I have but sorry news for you. The Reverend Mother writes: 'Sister Mary Seraphine expressed herself as completely satisfied with the cloistered life. She declared that her desire to return to the world had been but a passing phase, of which she was completely purged by the timely discipline of Mother Sub-Prioress, and by the fact that she has been appointed, with Sister Mary Gabriel, to embroider the new altar-cloth for the Chapel. She talked more eagerly about a stitch she is learning from Mary Gabriel, than about any of those by-gone memories, which certainly had seemed most poignantly revived in her; and I had no small difficulty in turning her mind from the all-absorbing question as to how to obtain the right tint for the pomegranates. My lord, to a mind thus intent upon needle-work for the Altar of God, I could scarce have brought myself to mention the call of an earthly lover, even had I believed your Knight to be seeking Seraphine. Her heart is now wedded to the Cloister.'"

The Bishop looked up.

"Therefore, my son, we must conclude that your secret interview, whenever or wherever it took place, had no effect—will bear no lasting fruit." The Bishop could not resist this allusion to the pomegranates of Seraphine.

But Hugh d'Argent, face to face with the suspended portcullis of his fate, trampled all such gossamer beneath impatient feet.

He moistened his dry lips.

"The message," he said.

The Bishop lifted the letter.

"'But,'" he read, "'if you still believe your noble Knight to be the lover of Seraphine, then I pray you to tell him this from me. No nun worthy of a brave man's love, would consent to break her vows. A nun who could renounce her vows to go to him, would wrong herself and him, bringing no blessing to his home. Better an empty hearth, than a hearth where broods a curse. I ask you, my lord, to give this as a message to that noble Knight from me—the Prioress of this House—and to bid him go in peace, praying for a heart submissive to the will of God.'"

The Bishop's voice fell silent. He had maintained its quiet tones, yet perforce had had to rise to something of the dignity of this final pronouncement of the Prioress, and he spoke the last words with deep emotion.

Hugh d'Argent leaned forward, his elbows on his knees; then dropped his head upon his hands, and so stayed motionless.

The portcullis had fallen. Its iron spikes transfixed his very soul.

She was his, yet lost to him.

This final word of her authority, this speaking, through the Bishop's mouth, yet with the dignity of her own high office, all seemed of set intent, to beat out the last ray of hope within him.

As he sat silent, with bowed head, wild thoughts chased through his brain. He was back with her in the subterranean way. He knelt at her feet in the yellow circle of the lantern's light. Her tender hands, her woman's hands, her firm yet gentle hands, fell on his head; the fingers moved, with soothing touch, in and out of his hair. Then—when his love and longing broke through his control—came her surrender.

Ah, when she was in his arms, why did he loose her? Or, when she had unlocked the door, and the dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea, stole downward from the crypt, why, like a fool, did he mount the steps alone, and leave her standing there? Why did he not fling his cloak about her, and carry her up, whether she would or no? "Why?" cried the demon of despair in his soul. "Ah, why!"

But, even then, his own true heart made answer. He had loosed her because he loved her too well to hold her to him when she had seemed to wish to stand free. And he had gone alone, because never would he force a woman to come with him against her will. His very strength was safeguard to her weakness.

Presently Hugh heard the Bishop folding the Prioress's letter. He lifted his head and held out his hand.

The Bishop was slipping the letter into his sash.

He paused. Those eyes implored. That outstretched hand demanded.

"Nay, dear lad," said the Bishop. "I may not give it you, because it mentions the White Ladies by name, the Order, and poor little shallow, changeful Seraphine herself, But this much I will do: as you may not have it, none other shall." With which the Bishop, unfolding the Prioress's letter, flung it upon the burning logs.

Together they watched it curl and blacken; uncurl again, and slowly flake away. Long after the rest had fallen to ashes, this sentence remained clear: "Better an empty hearth; than a hearth where broods a curse." The flames played about it, but still it remained legible; white letters, upon a black ground; then, letters of fire upon grey ashes.

Of a sudden the Knight, seizing the faggot-fork, dashed out the words with a stroke.

"I would risk the curse," he cried, with passion. "By Pilate's water, I would risk the curse!"

"I know you would, my son," said the Bishop, "and, by our Lady's crown, I would have let you risk it, believing, as I do, that it would end in blessing. But—listen, Hugh. In asking what you asked, you scarce know what you did. You need not say 'yea,' nor 'nay,' but I incline to think with the Reverend Mother, that the woman you sought was not foolish little Seraphine, turned one way by the neighing of a palfrey, another by the embroidering of a pomegranate. There are women of finer mould in that Nunnery, any one of whom may be your lost betrothed. But of this we may be sure: whosoever she be, the Prioress knows her, and knew of whom she wrote when she sent you that message. She has the entire confidence of all in the Nunnery. I verily believe she knows them better than does their confessor—a saintly old man, but dim.

"Now, listen to me. I said you knew not what you asked. Hugh, my lad, if you had won your betrothed away, you would have had much to learn and much to unlearn. Believe me, I know women, as only a priest of many years' standing can know them. Women are either bad or good. The bad are bad below man's understanding, because their badness is not leavened by one grain of honour; a fact the worst of men will ever fail to grasp. The good are good above man's comprehension, because their perfect purity of heart causeth the spirit ever to triumph over the flesh; and their love-instinct is the instinct of self-sacrifice. Every true woman is a Madonna in the home, or fain would be, if her man would let her. To such a woman, each promise of a child is an Annunciation; our Lady's awe and wonder, whisper again in the temple of her inner being; for her love has deified the man she loves; and, it seems to her, a child of his and hers must be a holy babe, born into the world to help redeem it. And so it would be, could she but have her way. But too often the man fails to understand, and so spoils the perfect plan. And she to whom love means self-sacrifice, sacrifices all—even her noblest ideals—sooner than fail a call upon her love. Yet I say again, could the Madonna instinct have had full sway, the world would have been redeemed ere now to holiness, to happiness, to health.

"You looked high, my son, by your own shewing. You loved high. Your love was worthy, for you remained faithful, when you believed you had been betrayed. Let your consolation now be the knowledge that she also was faithful, and that it is a double faithfulness which keeps her from responding to the call of your love. Seek union with her on the spiritual plane, and some day—in the Realm where all noble things shall attain unto full perfection—you may yet give thanks that your love was not allowed to pass through the perilous pitfalls of an earthly union."

The Knight looked at the delicate face of the Bishop, with its wistful smile, its charm of extreme refinement.

Yes! Here spoke the Prelate, the Idealist, the Mystic.

But the Knight was a man and a lover.

His dark face flushed, and his eyes grew bright with inward fires such as the Bishop could hardly be expected to understand.

"I want not spiritual planes," he said, "nor realms of perfection. I want my own wife, in my own home; and, could I have won her there, I have not much doubt but that I could have lifted her over any perilous pitfalls that came in her way."

"True, my son," said the Bishop, at once gently acquiescent; for Symon of Worcester invariably yielded a point which had been misunderstood. For over-rating a mind with which he conversed, this was ever his self-imposed penance. "Your great strength would be fully equal to lifting ladies over pitfalls. Which recalls to my mind a scene in this day's events, which I would fain describe to you before we part."

CHAPTER XXII
WHAT BROTHER PHILIP HAD TO TELL

The Bishop sat back in his chair, smiling, as at a mental picture which gave him pleasure, coupled with some amusement.

Ignoring the Knight's sullen silence, he began his story in the cheerful voice which takes for granted a willing and an interested listener.

"When the Prioress and myself were discussing your hopes, my son, and I was urging, in your interests, liberty of flight for Sister Mary Seraphine, I informed the Reverend Mother that the carrying out of your plans, carefully laid in order to keep any scandal concerning the White Ladies from reaching the city, would involve for Seraphine a ride of many hours to Warwick, almost immediately upon safely reaching the Star hostel. This seemed as nothing to the lover who, by his own shewing, had ofttimes seen her 'ride like a bird, all day, on the moors.' But to us who know the effect of monastic life and how quickly such matters as these become lost arts through disuse, this romantic ride in the late afternoon and on into the summer night, loomed large as a possible obstacle to the successful flight of Seraphine.

"Therefore, in order that our little bird might try her wings, regain her seat and mastery of a horse, and rid herself of a first painful stiffness, I persuaded the Reverend Mother to grant the nuns a Play Day, in honour of my visit, promising to send them my white palfrey, suitably caparisoned, in safe charge of a good lay-brother, so that all nuns who pleased, might ride in the river meadow. You would not think it," said the Bishop, with a smile, "but the White Ladies dearly love such sport, when it is lawful. They have an agèd ass which they gleefully mount in turns, on Play Days, in the courtyard and in the meadow. Therefore riding is not altogether strange to them, although my palfrey, Iconoklastes, is somewhat of an advance upon their mild ass, Sheba."

The Knight's sad face had brightened at mention of the beasts.

"Wherefore 'Iconoklastes'?" he asked, with interest. It struck him as a curious name for a palfrey.

"Because," replied the Bishop, "soon after I had bought him he trampled to ruin, in a fit of misplaced merriment, some flower beds on which I had spent much precious time and care, and of which I was inordinately fond."

"Brute," said the Knight, puzzled, but unwilling to admit it. "Methinks I should have named him 'Devil,' for the doing of such diabolic mischief."

"Nay," said the Bishop, gently. "The Devil would have spared my flower beds. They were a snare unto me."

"And wherefore 'Sheba'?" queried the Knight.

"I named her so, when I gave her to the Prioress," said the Bishop, "in reply to a question put to me by the Reverend Mother. The ass was elderly and mild, even then, but a handsome creature, of good breed. The Prioress asked me whether she still had too much spirit to be easily managed by the lay-sisters. I answered that her name was 'Sheba.'"

The Bishop paused and rubbed his hands softly over each other, in gleeful enjoyment of the recollection.

But the Knight again looked blank.

"Did that content the Prioress?" he asked; but chiefly for love of mentioning her name.

"Perfectly," replied the Bishop. "She smiled and said: 'That is well.' And the name stuck to the ass, though the Reverend Mother and I alone understood its meaning."

"About the Play Day?" suggested the Knight, growing restive.

"Ah, yes! About the Play Day. The time chosen was after noon on this day, in order that the Prioress might first accomplish her talk with Seraphine, thus clearing the way for our experiment. Although written last evening, I had not received the Reverend Mother's decisive letter, when Iconoklastes set forth; and, I confess, I looked forward with keen interest, to questioning the lay-brother on his return. As I have told you, I had doubts concerning Seraphine; but I knew the Prioress would see to it that my meaning and intention reached the member of the Community actually concerned, were she Seraphine or another; and I should have light, both on the identity of the lady and on her probable course of action, when report reached me as to which of the nuns had taken the riding seriously. Therefore, with no little interest, I awaited the return of Iconoklastes, in charge of Brother Philip."

The Bishop lifted the faggot-fork and, bending over the hearth, began to build the logs, quickening the dying flame.

"Well?" cried the Knight, chafing like a charger on the curb. "Well, my lord? And then?"

The Bishop stood the faggot-fork in its corner.

"I paused, my son, that you might say: 'Wherefore "Philip"?'"

"The names of men interest me not," said the Knight, with impatience.

"I care but to know the reason for the names of beasts."

"Quite right," said the Bishop. "Adam named the beasts; Eve named the men. Yet, I would like you to ask 'Wherefore "Philip,"' because the Prioress at once put that question, when she heard me call Brother Mark by his new name."

"Wherefore 'Philip'?" asked the Knight, with averted eyes.

"Because 'Philip' signifies 'a lover of horses.' I named the good brother so, when he developed a great affection for all the steeds in my stables.

"Well, at length Brother Philip returned, leading the palfrey. I had been riding upon the heights above the town, on my comely black mare, Shulamite."

Again the Bishop paused, and shot a merry challenge at Hugh d'Argent; but realising at once that the Knight could brook no more delay, he hastened on.

"Riding into the courtyard, just as Philip led in the palfrey, I bade him first to see to Icon's comfort; then come to my chamber and report. Before long the lay-brother appeared.

"Now Brother Philip is an excellent teller of stories. He does not need to mar them by additions, because his quickness of observation takes in every detail, and his excellent memory lets nothing slip. He has a faculty for recalling past scenes in pictures, and tells a story as if describing a thing just happening before his mental vision: the sole draw-back to so vivid a memory being, that if the picture grows too mirth provoking, Brother Philip is seized with spasms of the diaphragm, and further description becomes impossible. On this occasion, I saw at once that the good brother's inner vision teemed with pictures. I settled myself to listen.

"Aye, it had been a wonderful scene, and more merriment, so the lay-sisters afterwards told Brother Philip, than ever known before at any Play Day.

"Icon was led in state from the courtyard, down into the river meadow.

"At first the great delight was to crowd round him, pat him, stroke his mane, finger his trappings; cry out words of ecstatic praise and admiration, and attempt to feed him with all manner of unsuitable food.

"Icon, I gather, behaved much as most males behave on finding themselves the centre of a crowd of admiring women. He pawed the ground, and swished his tail; arched his neck, and looked from side to side; munched cakes he did not want, winking a large and roguish eye at Brother Philip; and finally, ignoring all the rest, fixed a languorous gaze upon the Prioress, she being the only lady present who stood apart, regarding the scene, but taking no share in the general adulation.

"At length the riding began; Brother Philip keeping firm hold on Icon, while the entire party of nuns undertook to mount the nun who had elected to ride. Each time Brother Philip attempted a description of this part of the proceedings he was at once seized with such spasms in the region of his girdle, that speech became an impossibility; he could but hold himself helplessly, looking at me from out streaming eyes, until a fresh peep at his mental picture again bent him double.

"Much as I prefer a story complete, from start to finish, I was constrained to command Brother Philip to pass on to scenes which would allow him some possibility of articulate speech.

"The sternness of my tones gave to the good brother the necessary assistance. In a voice still weak and faltering, but gaining firmness as it proceeded, he described the riding.

"Most of the nuns rode but a few yards, held in place by so many willing hands that, from a distance, only the noble head of Icon could be seen above the moving crowd, surmounted by the terrified face of the riding nun; who, hastening to exclaim that her own delight must not cause her to keep others from participation, would promptly fall off into the waiting arms held out to catch her; at once becoming, when safely on her feet, the boldest encourager of the next aspirant to a seat upon the back of Icon.

"Sister Mary Seraphine proved a disappointment. She had been wont to boast so much of her own palfrey, her riding, and her hunting, that the other nuns had counted upon seeing her gallop gaily over the field.

"The humble and short-lived attempts were all made first. Then Sister Mary Seraphine, bidding the others stand aside, was swung by one tall sister, acting according to her instructions, neatly into the saddle.

"She gathered up the reins, as to the manner born," and bade Brother Philip loose the bridle. But the palfrey, finding himself no longer hemmed in by a heated, pressing crowd, gave, for very gladness of heart, a gay little gambol.

"Whereupon, Sister Mary Seraphine, almost unseated, shrieked to Brother Philip to hold the bridle, rating him soundly for having let go.

"He then led Icon about the meadow, the nuns following in procession; Sister Seraphine all the while complaining; first of the saddle, which gripped her where it should not, leaving an empty space there where support was needed; then of the palfrey's paces; then of a twist in her garments—twice the procession stopped to adjust them; then of the ears of the horse which twitched for no reason, and presently pointed at nothing—a sure sign of frenzy; and next of his eye, which rolled round and was vicious.

"At this, Mother Sub-Prioress, long weary of promenading, yet determined not to be left behind while others followed on, exclaimed that if the eye of the creature were vicious, then must Sister Mary Seraphine straightway dismount, and the brute be led back to the seat where the Prioress sat watching.

"To this Seraphine gladly agreed, and a greatly sobered procession returned to the top of the field.

"But gaiety was quickly restored by the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, who, armed with the Reverend Mother's permission, insisted on mounting.

"Willing hands, miscalculating the exceeding lightness of her aged body, lifted her higher than need be, above the back of the palfrey. Whereupon Mary Antony, parting her feet, came down straddling!

"Firm as a limpet, she sat thus upon Icon. No efforts of the nuns could induce her to shift her position. Commanding Brother Philip, seeing 'the Lord Bishop' was now safely mounted, to lead on and not keep him standing, old Antony rode off in triumph, blessing the nuns right and left, as she passed.

"Never were heard such shrieks of merriment! Even Mother Sub-Prioress sank upon a seat to laugh with less fatigue. Sister Seraphine's fretful complaints were forgotten.

"Twice round the field went old Antony, with fingers uplifted. Icon stepped carefully, arching his neck and walking as if he well knew that he bore on his back, ninety odd years of brave gaiety.

"Well, that made of the Play Day a success. But—the best of all was yet to come."

The Bishop took up the faggot-fork, and again tended the fire. He seemed to find it difficult to tell that which must next be told.

The Knight was breathing quickly. He sat immovable; yet the rubies on his breast glittered continuously, like so many eager, fiery eyes.

The Bishop went on, speaking rapidly, the faggot-fork still in his hand, his face turned to the fire.

"They had lifted Mary Antony down, and were crowding round Icon, patting and praising him, when a message came from the Reverend Mother, bidding Brother Philip to bring the palfrey into the courtyard; the nuns to remain in the field.

"They watched the beautiful creature pace through the archway and disappear, and none knew quite what would happen next. Philip heard them discussing it later.

"Some thought the Bishop had sent for his palfrey. Others, that the Reverend Mother had feared for the safety of the old lay-sister; or, lest her brave example should fire the rest to be too venturesome. Yet all eyes were turned toward the archway, vaguely expectant.

"And then–

"They heard the hoofs of Icon ring on the flagstones of the courtyard.

"They heard the calm voice of the Prioress. Could it be she who was coming?

"Out from the archway, into the sunshine, alone and fearless; the Prioress rode upon Icon. On her face was the light of a purposeful radiance. The palfrey stepped as if proud of the burden he carried.

"She smiled and would have cried out gaily to the groups as she passed. But, with one accord, the nuns dropped to their knees, with clasped hands, and faces uplifted, adoring. Always they loved her, revered her, and thought her beautiful. But this vision of the Prioress, whom none had ever seen mounted, riding forth into the sunshine on the snow-white palfrey, filled their hearts with praise and with wonder.

"Brother Philip leaned against the archway, watching. He knew his hand upon the bridle was no longer needed, from the moment when he saw the Reverend Mother gather up the reins in her left hand, lay her right gently on the neck of Icon, and, bending, speak low in his ear.

"She sat a horse—said Philip—as only they can sit, who have ridden from childhood.

"She walked him round the meadow once, then gently shook the reins, and he broke into a trot.

"The watching nuns, now on their feet again, shrieked aloud, with fright and glee.

"At the extreme end of the meadow, wheeling sharply, she let him out into a canter.

"The nuns at this were petrified into dumbness. One and all held their breath; while Mother Sub-Prioress—nobody quite knew why—turned upon Sister Mary Seraphine, and shook her.

"And the next moment the Prioress was among them, walking the palfrey slowly, settling her veil, which had streamed behind her as she cantered, bending to speak to one and another, as she passed.

"And the light of new life was in her eyes. Her cheeks glowed, she seemed a girl again.

"Reining in Iconoklastes, she paused beside Mother Sub-Prioress and said–"

The Bishop broke off, while he carefully stood the faggot-fork up in its corner.

"She paused and said: 'None need remain here longer than they will. But, being up and mounted, and our Lord Bishop in no haste for the return of his palfrey, it is my intention to ride for an hour.'"